The Horror I Live
by rayychel infinity
Summary: Blaine Anderson appears perfect on the outside: perfect student, perfect son, perfect boyfriend. but everyone has their secrets, and Blaine's just goes a little darker and deeper and more blood-related than others'. (Full trigger warnings inside, and please, please tread carefully.)


**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title is from "My Disease" by A Skylit Drive.

**Please heed **the** TRIGGER WARNINGS **for** rape **and** incest**,** sexual assault/abuse** (see: **child abuse**), and **homophobic slurs** mixed in with** slut-shaming**. Like "At The End Of The World," this fic deals with some heavy issues and doesn't gloss over them. I encourage you to think twice about reading it before you do if there's a chance anything could be triggering. Also, please understand that I am not condoning or romanticizing behavior like this: I am merely taking my stance as a writer to create.

Tumblr is here (endofadream)

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Blaine flops backwards onto his bed, his phone held to his ear as Kurt goes on about the latest dramatic McKinley glee battle. He's not even sure what Kurt's saying anymore—something about Mercedes and Rachel and a solo—but it doesn't matter. Kurt's sweet, gentle voice in his ear is like home, and since Kurt had left Dalton to transfer back Blaine's felt less and less like he actually has a home. His stomach jolts uncomfortably, but he thins his lips, pushes the thoughts away.

He smiles, closing his eyes and losing himself in the moment, in the knowledge that the voice on the other line isn't just his friend anymore but his _boyfriend_. A warm, happy little feeling runs through Blaine's body and he sighs contentedly, fiddling with the button on his nightshirt. Kurt Hummel is his boyfriend and they've _kissed_ and Blaine actually feels like a teenage boy.

_"…I don't know why Rachel thinks she has to have all the solos,"_ Kurt huffs, agitated. The sound of bottles being set down is faint in the background as Kurt switches moisturizers. Blaine wonders what Kurt looks like doing his nightly skincare routine, wonders how many different products he uses: he'd considered asking, once, but even he knows that it's better sometimes just to see for yourself.

"She's Rachel," Blaine responds, his voice slow and smooth and lazy with exhaustion. It's his first weekend home from Dalton in almost a month, and the Warblers practice they'd had right before he'd left—even though they hadn't really needed one since they'd lost to McKinley: nursing homes don't really care about exceptional harmonies and fancy footwork—had worn him out. "Doesn't she think she's entitled to, like, everything?"

Kurt huffs, setting down a bottle with a louder thump. Blaine rolls over, sandwiching the phone between his ear and the pillow as his arm gets tired. Kurt probably has that cute little furrow between his brows right now, the one he always gets when he's aggravated. _"Maybe. But still! Mercedes has the voice we need for this song and Rachel just _doesn't care_, Blaine. She's my friend, but it's driving me nuts."_

Blaine rolls his eyes, sighs exaggeratedly—he knows it'll make Kurt smile, and he's willing to bet that Kurt's begun to smile right now, his deliciously pink lips curling shyly upwards as his eyes sparkle. "Girls, Kurt. Girls. This is why we're not wired to like them—less drama. And a longer life span."

Kurt giggles, softly, and Blaine feels an eruption of a thousand tiny butterflies wriggling and fluttering just behind his navel. He bites his lower lip through a smile as Kurt says, _"Way less drama."_

He and Kurt may not have been friends for long, and may have been dating for less, but Blaine feels like he's known Kurt all his life, like they just…_go_ together for a reason. He rolls over again, onto his stomach this time, and kicks his feet up as he traces over the crisscrossed lines of his comforter. His phone is warm against his cheek, and he sneaks a glance at the alarm clock on his nightstand. "Oh, hey, by the way, I was wondering if you were free tomorrow. So we could get…coffee. Or something."

Kurt lets out the tiniest of happy noises. _"Blaine Anderson,"_ he teases, voice positively glowing with affection, _"is this you asking me out on a _date_?"_

Blaine smiles, feeling like his heart is swelling. How is he this lucky, to be able to say that he's _dating_ the perfect boy? Nearly every day feels like something out of a dream, especially on the mornings when he wakes up to a text from Kurt. "That depends. Are you going to say yes?"

_"What, refuse a chance to talk to my amazingly handsome schoolboy boyfriend face-to-face after a long week apart?"_ Kurt asks, and Blaine imagines the endless kaleidoscope of colors in Kurt's eyes, the intent way he'll look at Blaine, like Blaine is the only person in the room. _"I'd rather snip up my favorite McQueen sweater."_

Blaine laughs, loud and genuine. "Such seriousness coming from you, Mr. Hummel."

_"Just honesty,"_ Kurt replies. His voice goes a little softer, a little more intimate. _"But I'm also serious. I'd love to get coffee with you, Blaine. I miss you."_

Blaine opens his mouth to answer, to say _I've missed you too, so much_, but before he can there's a crash downstairs, followed by muffled swearing. The light, warm feeling immediately leaves Blaine's body and is quickly replaced with cold, heavy dread that hangs leaden in his stomach. His palms begin to sweat, and even before he hears heavy lumbering steps ascend the stairs he's panicking, Kurt's voice fading into the background as he sits up, looks wildly around.

_"I think we should—"_ Kurt's saying as Blaine's heart races, but he doesn't really hear it, doesn't comprehend a word that Kurt's saying. He looks from his closed door to the door of his en suite, wonders if he could hide in there and lock the door until his dad sobered up, but he knows it'd be useless. For as much of a heinous drunk as his dad is he's still strong and incredibly fit for a man of his age, and Blaine knows he could bust down that door easily.

"Kurt, listen, I've got to go," Blaine says quickly as the handle on his door begins to turn. His eyes widen, unblinking, and he swallows hard, clenching his hand around his phone as he closes his eyes, forces back tears and forces his voice to stay calm. "I'm sorry. I'll talk to you later."

He hangs up before Kurt can respond; he leans back quickly, tosses his phone onto his nightstand, and rights himself on the bed just as the door swings open.

William Anderson is a tall, strongly-built man of forty-five and from whom Blaine did not get his height. Like Cooper, William's eyes are cornflower blue, but tonight , rimmed in so much red as they are, they look, somehow, even bluer. Blaine forces himself to look his dad in the face, raises his chin and says, "Hi, Dad."

William's thick black hair is disheveled, and the collar of his button-up is askew, the hem of it crinkled and hanging out of the waistband of his slacks. Even from the doorway Blaine can smell tequila and whiskey, and he scrunches his nose up. Maybe tonight will be one of those nights where William will get bored and leave after a few minutes. Then Blaine could call Kurt back, pretend for another half-hour that he's a normal teenage boy with a normal, happy home life.

As William lurches towards the bed, though, lips pulled up into something akin to a drunken, lusty sneer, Blaine's illusion comes shattering at his feet in a thousand tiny crystals, along with both his heart and his hope.

Blaine turns his head, clenches his jaw as William drops heavily onto the bed next to him. He stares steadfastly at the wall, hoping his father will get bored and go away if he ignores him; when there's a large, rough hand on his face he jerks, closing his eyes. He pretends that he's not here, that he's back at Dalton and that's Kurt's hand on his face and Kurt's hand inching up the smooth silk covering his upper thigh.

"Look at me," his dad slurs. When Blaine hesitates he demands, louder, "Look at me, goddamn it!"

Reluctantly, Blaine twists to face his dad. He bites back his fear, his nausea, tries to remind himself that one more of these things to go through means one less in the future. He tries to imagine again that it's Kurt there, that it's Kurt's hand on his face and Kurt's eyes looking at him like that.

But Kurt's hands are soft and Kurt's eyes are brighter, gentler, more beautiful and less drunken. He looks at Blaine like the world revolves around him, not like he's a…a piece of meat, or a warm mouth. Blaine can't fantasize his way out of this anymore, and maybe that's what really hurts, this knowledge that he's stuck, that he can't fucking do _anything_ without being ripped from everything that he knows. Without being taken away from _Kurt_.

"You're so beautiful," his dad murmurs softly, his eyes unfocused. His fingertips trail over Blaine's mouth, then down his chin and towards his throat. They pause on the buttons of Blaine's shirt, hesitate, but Blaine knows that his dad won't want it off. He never does. "So…perfect."

_Who am I tonight?_ Blaine almost asks out loud, thinks the words like poison darts to his father's sick, twisted body. _Your wife who left you, or your son?_

When his dad's hand finally brushes the waistband of his pajama pants the panic and instinct kick in and Blaine is shoving his dad's hand away, trying to move up the bed as he pleads, desperate, "Not tonight, Dad, _please_. Kurt and I just—"

_Crack_.

The sound echoes in the room seconds before Blaine feels the stinging pain blooming over his cheek as his head snaps sharply sideways. He lifts a hand up, jaw dropped in surprise, and looks at his dad, sees pure, untainted rage there. His hand is still raised, and instinctively Blaine shies away from it, hunches down and curls in on himself. His dad has never hit him before. This has never happened.

"Shut up," his dad snarls, lurching unsteadily forward. His hand goes to Blaine's pajama pants again, and this time Blaine just closes his eyes, doesn't try to fight him off. How much fight does his truly have left in him, anyway? It's been four years—and four years is a long, soul-crushing time. "You're gonna—gonna take what I give you and you're gonna like it."

_Just like every other time_, Blaine thinks, squeezing his eyes shut and fighting back his terrified whimper as his dad's hand works its way down under Blaine's underwear. He's learned that it's better not to struggle, better to just let his dad do…_it_ and let them both pretend the next day like it never happened.

Blaine swallows back his bile, tries not to breathe in his father's alcohol-soaked breath. He wills himself not to concentrate on the steady feeling of his father's hand even as, unable to fight his body's teenage reactions, he begins to slowly get hard. It brings on a rush of revulsion, of self-loathing and absolute worthlessness, and Blaine begins to sink in it, begins to drown as it swallows him whole.

"Yeah, that's it," William murmurs, shifting to pull down Blaine's pants and underwear with hands that don't seem to want to work right. Blaine puts up a fight as they slide over his thighs and his knees and down his shins to the floor, but it's half-hearted, lazy, and he watches his clothes fall to the floor like he's looking through the eyes of another person.

He stares up at the ceiling, breathes, slowly, steadily, and counts his breaths as a hand closes around him again and grips tight enough to make him wince uncomfortably. "So…so beautiful. You're my precious, perfect little boy, Blaine," William whispers, too-close to Blaine's cheek, "My good little boy."

Blaine blanches, feeling his face scrunch up as the rush of tears becomes almost too much—but he can't cry, he _can't_. Crying is showing weakness, and showing weakness only makes it worse. He's long past the stage of _why me?_ now, though sometimes he wishes that he were back there, where he could have someone other than himself to blame, because by now it is all on him, on his stupid, selfish need to stay here with his friends. He could live with Cooper in LA, start a life there and let his dad be locked up for years while he tries his best to forget all about Ohio.

But he doesn't. He _can't_. And he's stuck here, stuck with this, unable to leave and unable to even do anything about it. All because he's a _fucking_ coward and throws up every time he thinks about going to the police, because going to the police means letting everyone _know_ what his father does, what he _lets_ his father do.

He turns his head away, grips hard onto the comforter as he forces a moan back. He closes his eyes again, keeps them shut as the weight of the bed redistributes and the light behind his eyes gets darker; his father hovers over him, propped up on one hand as he murmurs phrases Blaine knows come from the alcohol.

"Please," he begs weakly, turning his head to press his face into the pillow. Even though he steels himself every single time, tells himself _it's just one more night_, he can't deal with it, can't take it, and it all comes to a head. It's like clockwork, and tonight is no different. "Dad, please just stop."

William just grunts, keeps moving, and Blaine can't hold back his gasp at the too-hot shock of pleasure that runs through him. But no matter how hard he tries, how hard he tells himself to be strong, he feels the tears slide down his cheek, feels the sob bubbling up and bubbling up deep I n his chest.

"No, please," he whimpers, pushing futilely at his dad's hand. "Stop, no, I don't want it, _please_…"

A rough hand pushes his legs apart, and Blaine sobs in humiliation, twisting his upper body to press his face further into the pillows. William doesn't often go this far, and the fear this time is nearly unbearable, suffocates Blaine as he tries not to sob into thin, soft cotton. There's a hand, now, down lower, and Blaine clenches his hands into fists, arches his back and shakes his head into the pillow. _No, no, this isn't happening, it can't be this isn't real I need to wake up it needs to go away…_

When William's hands grip hard onto his waist and flip him roughly over, Blaine cries out, his shoulders shaking as he finally lets out a rough, dry sob that echoes in his room, reverberates back to remind him that he's pathetic, useless, defenseless and that, most importantly, he deserves this. "No, no, no, _stop_—"

There's a hand pulling tightly on his hair, yanking his head roughly up from the pillow, just as a hand connects hard and painful with his ass. He gasps, quieting his sobs as pain flares electric from both ends and meets in the middle. It sobers him, just a little, clears the fuzzed panic in his brain.

"I thought I told you to shut the fuck up," William snarls, his voice low and threateningly dangerous. "I know you fucking want it, you fucking whore. Don't even try and lie to me."

_I don't. I don't, please, I don't want this. I never do._

"So you're gonna take it. You're gonna take it and you're gonna fucking _like it_."

Blaine shakes his head, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't have anything _too_ say. He's letting his mind drift off, go to happier places, places that aren't here and now and _thi_s_._ He closes his eyes, can faintly still hear music, can feel movement. There's a sharp pain, a dull burn, but Blaine's mind still drifts, anchored to thoughts of Kurt, of the coffee date that they have tomorrow. He's back in Dalton, in the safety of his own dorm. In this world, _this_ never happens.

Kurt's kissing him now, slow and shy and sweet, and Blaine is smiling, flushing. He loves kissing Kurt and holding Kurt's hand. He feels safe when he's with Kurt. Kurt can protect him, take him away—

The dull pain flares up, burns sharper, hotter, and Blaine lets out an involuntary pained scream; there's another blow to the side of his face, open-palmed and harder, and then he's being hoisted onto all fours, his brain unfocused and his ears still ringing with the impact.

"You don't want the neighbors to hear you, do you?" William hisses with his whiskey-soaked breath. Blaine cries outright, now, overwhelmed by too much all at once as hands grip his waist tighter, hold him still and that heavy weight settles deep as his body screams its protest. "You don't want them to see what a sick faggot whore you are, do you?"

Blaine sobs, shaking his head. He closes his eyes as a tear rolls down the bridge of his noise, drops off the tip and to the bed. It hurts, _god_ it always does, like he's being ripped apart from the inside out, and he grips hard enough to the sheets that he's surprised he isn't ripping holes straight through them.

_It'll be over soon. It always is. It has to be._

He doesn't open his eyes, is afraid to see what's actually happening, because if he can't see it, then it's not happening, right? It's all just a bad dream, and he'll wake up and his mom will still be there to hold him and tell him that it'll be all right. It's all his imagination, this pain-this unwanted, horrible sensation, these _sounds_.

He wants to clap his hands over his ears, drown out his father's grunts and harsh, barbed words behind him. He bites hard on his lip when there's a press just right, a sharp slap of skin, and his back bows with pleasure; he tastes the coppery tang of blood as his dick gives a twitch between his legs and his father laughs, mocking and _awful_.

_It's not real it's not it's not it's not—_

_Yes it is it's happening and you're letting it you sick fuck—_

_Worthless—_

_Whore—_

Blaine whimpers when nails dig into his hips, pull him back and make him cry out at the pressure. He sets his jaw, hears his dad say, "Yeah, just like that—fucking _take it_. This is what you like, right? Feeling someone's dick inside you?"

He feels it, that rushing, swelling tide, and he can't stop it, cries out, "No, no, I don't want to come, please, _no_—" even as his body succumbs. He sobs out his moans, dropping to his elbows and burying his face in the pillows as he shakes, feels the sting of slapping skin on his exposed ass; and then, suddenly, it's over and his body is dropping limp to the bed. He doesn't even bother with humiliation now, doesn't try to cover himself up as he hears his dad stumble out of the room. There is no energy, no fight, left in him. It's like he's a shell, an empty _nothing_.

The sheets are cold under his abdomen, and there's a leaking wetness on the inside of his thigh, but he doesn't think about that, doesn't dwell on what he knows it is: instead he lets his mind go black, hovers in the sweet space of nothingness, of nonexistence, until his phone vibrates on his nightstand.

After a second's debate he pushes himself up, ignores the screaming protests of his body, and reaches for it with tear-blurred eyes and shaky hand. Kurt's name and picture are on the screen, and for a moment Blaine feels his face contort as he lets out another deep, pained sob—then, as quickly as he can from years of practice, of pretending like everything is perfect, he wipes his eyes, clears his throat and takes a few deep breaths. He throws the sheet over his lap, pastes a wide, fake smile on his face, and answers the call with the positivity and pep of Blaine Anderson, Dalton Academy Warbler, someone who can look at himself in the mirror and not see a boy who's just as big of a pathetic monster as his father is.

"Hey, Kurt! Sorry I had to leave so suddenly. My dad came home."


End file.
